


the taste of dried-up hopes

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Holy Water, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28182369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: He'd thought Aziraphale would understand. They've known each other so long, spent so much time speaking this language of things implied and left unsaid, and the angel is usually so good at reading between the lines. Surely he would hear what Crowley meant now, when it mattered the most.Instead, the angel had thrown it all back in his face.(Crowley is trying to declare his feelings as loudly as he dares. Aziraphale gets the wrong message entirely. They figure things out eventually.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 144
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. 1862

* * *

_and the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth  
and the landscape of merry and desperate drought  
how much longer, dear angel?  
let winterlight come  
and spread your white sheets over my empty house_

* * *

Crowley stares as the angel stalks away, trying and failing to keep his heart from breaking.

 _Fraternizing_ . The word cuts through him like a knife. How could-- of all the ways Aziraphale might have reacted to his request, he'd never expected angel would be so- so-- _dismissive._ As if what they had-- five thousand years and more of shared history--was nothing more than a tawdry affair.

He wants to be sick. He'd thought Aziraphale would _understand._ That he'd know what it meant, for Crowley to ask him for this. What he's risking. What he's _saying_.

Clearly, he'd been wrong.

He grimaces. He's had millennia of practice at keeping his feelings close to his chest, but this _hurts_. His eyes prickle with a sudden moisture, and he squeezes them shut. He breathes in hard, pressing a gloved fist to his mouth, trying to school his expression back to neutrality. You never knew who might be watching.

Vulnerability in Hell is dangerous, and he's long kept his heart locked away, burying it under a carefully constructed facade of easy bravado.

He's worn the mask so long now, sometimes he almost forgets it's all a show.

Not that Aziraphale is any different, really. The angel tells different lies but it's all for the same reasons-- because honesty is too dangerous for both of them. And so they've spent centuries never quite saying what they mean directly. Dancing on the razor's edge of discovery, their meetings are always shielded by a veil of plausible deniability. They aren't meeting each other on _purpose_ , oh no. It's always a coincidence, all _Ah, my old Adversary, come to thwart me again, I see_ and _Angel, what a coincidence, seeing you here._

They are both very fluent in the language of subterfuge. They have to be.

But this-- this was too important, and so Crowley had risked being as bold as he dared. For once, he had risked laying all his cards on the table, baring his throat and speaking as clearly as he knew how.

_Please, angel. I need you. I love you so much I'd kill my own kind for you. For us. To keep us together._

This isn't about the Arrangement. Not anymore. If Crowley's honest with himself, it hasn't been for a long time now. It's about the way Aziraphale smiles. The light in his eyes when Crowley does him some little favor. The small, delighted wiggle he makes when he's finished a particularly good meal.

It's about the way Crowley wishes he could see these things every day, every _hour_ , never leaving his angel's side, instead of sustaining himself on whatever meager scraps of time together they can manage to steal.

He'd thought Aziraphale would understand. They've known each other so long, spent so much time speaking this language of things implied and left unsaid, and the angel is usually so good at reading between the lines. Surely he would hear what Crowley meant now, when it mattered the most.

Instead, the angel had thrown it all back in his face.

Aziraphale's horrified expression lingers in his mind, the way he'd almost spit the words as he tossed the note away. _Absolutely not! It will destroy you!_

Crowley's hands clench around the handle of his cane. Does Aziraphale think he doesn't _know_ that? That he isn't intimately aware of how dangerous this is for him? That he's not terrified?  
  
But it doesn't _matter_ how scared he is. Holy water is the only weapon that Hell would never expect him to use. Demons killing other demons-- that's nothing new. It's not _easy_ , but it's certainly possible, and in the dog-eat-dog world of Hell it may not be common, but it does happen. Executions, too. Hell prefers to sentence its criminals to endless torment, but fuck up badly enough, and they're happy to be rid of you.

He has no illusions about what they will do to him if they find out the truth of his relationship with Aziraphale. And when that time comes, when they come for him---  
  
No. _If,_ he reminds himself. _If_ they come for him, Holy Water is the one thing he can think of that might scare them badly enough that they'll back off. Or at least it would be shocking enough to give him time to flee.

 _If_ he ever has to use it.

(He knows, someday, he'll have to use it.)

He's probably just being paranoid. But better to be paranoid and prepared than caught flat-footed when Hell is out to get you. Or to get _them._ That's the real worry. It doesn't matter if they come for him. But the idea that they'd come for Aziraphale... He can't allow that to happen. He won't. No matter what it takes, he won't let them get his angel.

But in all his plotting and planning and preparing for this moment, he'd never expected the angel to say _no_.

 _Fraternizing._ He shivers. The word keeps playing in his mind, over and over. And the bitter lie of his own reply, after: _I've plenty of other people to fraternize with_ . _I don't need you._

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it's not that Aziraphale didn't understand, but simply that he doesn't feel the same way. He'd thought-- he'd been so _sure_ Aziraphale felt the same, but...

 _Fraternizing_ . If that's what the angel thinks of him-- maybe he's just been deluding himself all this time. Aziraphale is an angel, after all. What can Crowley really offer him? They might be colleagues, co-conspirators, even allies, but not _friends._ Not-- anything else.

Of course an angel would never return his feelings. A demon might betray Hell, but an angel would never turn their back on Heaven. Especially not for a _demon_. Stupid. He should have known better than to ever entertain such a ridiculous notion, let alone hope for it.

There's an ache growing in his chest, a yawning gulf of grief and loneliness. Moisture gathers in his eyes, and he banishes it with a sniff. He digs clawed fingers into his palms, letting the pain ground him and pull him back to the present.

 _Get it together_ , he snarls at himself. He is _not_ going to fall apart in a public park.

He just-- he needs to be... somewhere else, for awhile. Not his flat. He can't bear the silence right now, the terrible memory of Aziraphale's voice hissing _fraternizing_ echoing in his skull. No, he needs someplace loud enough to drown out his thoughts, and crowded. A raucous stew of human vice to sooth his nerves. There's a dockside pub he knows of that should do the trick nicely; a rickety dive too small to have a proper name or even a sign, where the first and only rule is _no questions asked_.

He'll drink until he's managed to drown his sorrows and then... a nap, maybe. Turn off this stupid human brain with its stupid, messy emotions and just... not think for awhile. Let his mind go dark, and numb, and quiet.

Maybe if he sleeps long enough, he'll forget how badly he hurts.

* * *

He sleeps for a decade or two, long enough to dull the pain enough from excruciating to something more manageable, and then he fucks off to Asia. Aziraphale hasn't visited the continent in centuries, and he doubts that will change anytime soon. Besides, the humans have apparently just launched a new international locomotive line, and he's eager to try out this innovation in long-distance travel. It's rumored to be the height of luxury, and Crowley may not have Aziraphale's taste for indulgence, but he's never been one to deny himself some creature comforts.

He catches up on current events as the steam train barrels east, eyebrows raising higher with every paper he reads. By all accounts, the humans have made a right mess of the Orient; stirring up all manner of mayhem and chaos as they race to slice up the continent like Christmas pudding. A slow grin spreads over his face with each new headline, growing into something sharp and almost feral. Yes, this is exactly the sort of distraction he needs. It's a perfect opportunity to throw himself into some properly demonic machinations, and maybe take credit for a few revolutions while he's at it.

He's got twenty years of reports to catch up on, after all.

* * *

He still in China when the Great War breaks out. Hell has sent him a missive ordering him to France, which he promptly burns. News is slow to arrive this far from Europe, but all the papers are saying the war will be over by Christmas, and it will take him almost that long to get back to England. It hardly seems worth the effort to travel so far only to arrive when things are already over.

No, he'll stay here, keep an ear to the ground, and just take credit for the worst of it, as he always does.

* * *

He returns to an England that glows under the light of electric bulbs and is up to its eyeballs in sin. Everywhere, humans are throwing themselves headlong into a new era of hedonism, eagerly indulging in every ancient vice they know of and inventing a few new ones along the way. Drugs, drink, sex-- the clubs are full of people working to bury the pain of the past few years in a haze of pleasure.

Crowley takes it all in with a grin. He doesn't need to lift a finger to fulfill his temptation quota, and that suits him just fine. It gives him time to indulge in a few pleasures of his own, and stubbornly ignore the little voice in his head that asks _I wonder what the angel's up to nowadays_.

* * *

In 1926, he falls in love at first sight.

The humans have always been clever with their mechanical inventions, but _oh_ , they've really outdone themselves this time. This _automobile_ is all sleek curves and gleaming metal, and the sight of it captivates him. He barely hears the human nattering on besides him, and only holds out his hand for the keys. The machine roars to life as he turns it on, louder than he expected, startling a grin out of him. As they speed out into the countryside, she purrs under his hands like a living thing, and the sheer speed and power of it make him crow in delight. It feels almost like flying. It tastes like _freedom._

 _Oh yes_ , he thinks, as they barrel down the country roads, _you and I are going to go very far, old girl. Very far indeed._

* * *

Eventually, he swings by Soho, just to check. It's been nearly seventy years, now, after all. Anything might have happened, and he just-- he needs to know for sure whether the angel is doing alright.

And yes, the bookshop is still there, the windows looking dustier and dirtier than ever. He even catches a glimpse of someone inside, a cream-colored blur moving about, reshelving books. Even from this distance, there's a fussiness to his movements that's unmistakable.

 _Aziraphale_.

His heart twinges as the old hurt returns. It's been a long time. Long enough that he can admit to himself just how badly he's missed the angel.

There's a part of him that wants to go in. Wants to stroll easily through the doors as he's always done. To stretch out on the sofa and share a bottle or three of wine and talk late into the night. He could regale Aziraphale with tales of the schemes he pulled off in Asia, or simply listen to the angel natter on for hours about whatever books he's been reading.

He can imagine the scene so clearly, he can almost feel the worn leather of Aziraphale's couch beneath his hands. Does he dare reach out to make it happen?

It's been a long time, for both of them. But has it been long enough for the angel to forget his anger? He's been back in England for years now, and Aziraphale hasn't reached out, hasn't tried to contact him.

Perhaps he doesn't miss Crowley at all.

In the end, he's too much of a coward to risk it. As much as he aches to see the angel again, the thought of another rejection is unbearable. No matter how much time passes, the memory of that _word_ still cuts him to the bone.

No, he won't go inside. Better to keep his distance, no matter how it hurts, than confirm the terrible fear that it really _is_ over between them.

With a sigh, he restarts the engine, and eases the Bentley back into traffic.

He doesn't go back to Soho.

* * *

Time passes, and the winds of war pick up again. By now, he can always tell when it's coming. It's a particular sort of smell in the air; an oily taste that lingers on the wind. He grimaces. This one's going to be nasty.

Hell sends him to infiltrate MI6, and he's all too happy to take the position, though he has no intention of carrying out their orders to sabotage the Allies' efforts. London is _his_ territory, and he's certainly not going to let it fall to a bunch of slimy Nazis.

It's easy enough to get in the door-- his facility with languages makes him invaluable as a translator-- but he finds, to his surprise, that he quite enjoys the work. Sabotage and ciphers are exactly the sort of tricky pies he delights in getting his fingers into, and there are some genuinely clever schemes he's quite proud to see pulled off. His coworkers aren't too bad either, if he's honest-- bastards and scoundrels, the lot of them. Working for a good cause (ugh), but with just enough of a nasty streak to be interesting.

They remind him quite a bit of a certain angel he knows.

And then, in 1941, he finds himself staring down at a photo of Aziraphale, meeting with a woman he knows very well is a Nazi spy.

Well, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. This fic has been a long time in coming. I came up with the original concept in late 2019 - based partly on [this meta](https://tickety-boo-as-fuck.tumblr.com/post/189298241780/racketghost-elven-child-ive-been-having-so), as well as Gaiman's comment that "you go too fast for me, Crowley" was better than any simple "I love you" could ever be. Since then I've been occasionally poking at the idea, getting a sentence here and a fragment there. I finally sat down to collect and type them back in October, and the story decided it was finally ready to be written. It's been a slower process than I wanted, but it feels good to finally be getting this one out of my head.
> 
> Title + lyrics from "Drought" by Vienna Teng


	2. 1941

Aziraphale can't quite believe what he's seeing at first, when the shadows mold themselves into a lithe, lanky figure at the other end of the church, hopping and jumping like a bead of water on a hot griddle. He knows immediately who it is, of course; he could never mistake that silhouette. He just can't bring himself to believe that this is actually _happening_.

 _Crowley_.

He feels the weight of all the years between them suddenly lift, and _oh_ , it's not until this moment that he realizes just how heavy they've been. It's been eighty years since their fight, and he'd started to give up hope of ever seeing the demon again. He'd thought it was over between them. And yet--

Crowley came. He's _here._

Despite all Aziraphale's cruel words, Crowley came for him. Unasked, unexpected, he's come to the rescue yet again.

Hope rises in his throat, bright and sweet after the sharp pain of Rose's betrayal. Perhaps-- just perhaps-- he's gotten his backup after all.

Aziraphale catches himself, then. No, no. He's being foolish. Crowley is not here for a rescue, surely. Crowley is a demon, after all, and terrible deeds are afoot, tonight. Surely Aziraphale has only been caught in the other half of this betrayal, and Crowley is only here for these Nazi conspirators.

They haven't spoken in decades. After everything he said... Aziraphale knows better than to expect forgiveness. There's no reason Crowley should be here for _him_. Likely it's just an unfortunate coincidence.

Only, Crowley looks at him as if he's gone mad when he says as much, and his tone is insulted. _I just didn't want to see you embarrassed_.

And that-- that's--

It's too much. He can't think about what it means, that Crowley came here for _him_ , even after all this time, just to spare him embarrassment. The hope in his chest that he's done his best to tamp down flares back to life, and he shivers at the strength of it. It's too much, too fast; his heart aches with the taste of all the possibilities he'd given up on, that suddenly seem once again within reach.

It's a relief to return his focus to the humans, to have Crowley ask _him_ for a favor in return. A welcome distraction from the way his heart swells in his chest.

He reaches out with his power, easily finding the bomb that's hurtling down towards them, and raises a shield around himself and Crowley, just in time. The earth shakes underneath them, and the world disappears for a moment in the roar of the explosion and the terrible crash of the walls collapsing in around them. When the air clears again, there's nothing left but the two of them standing in a wide swath of smoking rubble.

And then-- oh, and _then--_

Crowley walks away from him, picking his way through the rubble, and all Aziraphale can do is stare after him, stunned and speechless. He can feel the weight of the leather bag in his hand, rough and worn, but it doesn't feel quite real. Nothing feels quite real. It's as if they've stepped outside of time, into their own private universe. Someplace beyond the boundaries of their opposing sides, where all the rules and limitations that have always kept them apart can no longer touch them.

The books. Crowley saved _the books_. It's an impossible kindness, and impossible to mistake for anything but what it really is: a declaration, so loud and clear that even Aziraphale's doubting heart can't mistake it.

Crowley loves him. And he-- _oh_. He loves _Crowley_ , too; utterly and completely.

He has been so very, very foolish.

He's always cared for Crowley, of course. Even in the beginning, when he'd tried to tell himself he was only keeping an eye on the enemy, he'd always enjoyed the demon's company. But he'd never dared to put a name to this thing between them. He could never quite bring himself to believe that Crowley might feel the same. But now – now the truth of it is staring him in the face, undeniable, and he's so full of light and love that he thinks he might burst with it.

It makes the memory of their last meeting sting all the more sharply, and he swallows hard, his throat thick with the sudden taste of guilt. All those years ago... he'd been so _surprised_ by Crowley's request, so shocked by a sudden and desperate fear at the thought of losing the demon's company forever-- he'd made a terrible mistake.

He'd thought Crowley was planning to leave him, and he'd lashed out. But that wasn't what he'd been trying to say at all, was it? Crowley had been trying to tell him that he felt the same. That he'd rather face the wrath of Hell than leave Aziraphale's side, if their Arrangement was discovered.

Crowley had been offering up his heart on a platter, and Aziraphale had been too overwhelmed by his own fears to realize it. Instead he'd called it _fraternizing_. As if they hadn't spent five thousand years leaning on one another, weathering the ups and downs of history. As if this thing between them was something small, and shameful, and better forgotten.

It had been a terrible, spiteful moment of thoughtless cruelty. No wonder the demon had disappeared for decades.

And yet... despite everything, he _came back_.

Crowley is here now, and Aziraphale does not deserve such devotion, but perhaps, just perhaps, he can begin to mend what he had so thoughtlessly broken between them.

“You coming or not, angel?” Crowley calls, and Aziraphale pulls himself back to the present to see Crowley already at the edge of the churchyard, leaning against an automobile, sleek and black and beautiful.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Aziraphale gasps, and hurries to his side. Crowley has come back, and Aziraphale will not let him go again.

* * *

Aziraphale is so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hardly notices when they pull up next to the bookshop, and a tense silence falls as the motor sputters to a stop.

“Right,” Crowley says, eventually, “be seeing you--” at the same time as Aziraphale blurts out, rather desperately, “Won't you come inside?”

Crowley freezes, staring at him. There's a flicker of motion as he licks his lips, once, and then shakes his head. “...best not,” he mutters at last. “Another time, maybe.”

But there's a tightness to his voice that's more than just the awkwardness of small talk, and Aziraphale, abruptly, remembers the soft little cries of pain Crowley had made during his entrance. He sneaks a glance at Crowley's face, and despite the darkness, Aziraphale can see the tension there.

 _Consecrated ground_. Oh, of course. How could he have forgotten? “Like being at the beach in bare feet” indeed. He's amazed the demon didn't immediately burst into flame. He must be in terrible pain. But, true to form, he seems determined to downplay it. Aziraphale has known Crowley long enough to see him hurt before; he knows that given the chance, the demon will slink off on his own to suffer in silence.

Aziraphale refuses to give him that chance.

Of course, it would never do to offer aid directly. Crowley's pride would never allow it. So instead Aziraphale says, “Oh, but they haven't sounded the all clear, yet... you shouldn't be out on the streets now. Come in, won't you? Just until then.” He sighs and adds, with his best pleading look, “I... I have missed your company.”

Crowley sputters and whines as he always does, grumbling in half-hearted protest, but at last he relents. “Oh, all right then,” he mutters, as he swings the car door open, “just until all-clear.”

As soon as he steps out of the car, Crowley staggers and nearly falls, and Aziraphale feels a grim satisfaction as he reaches out to steady him. Foolish demon. He _is_ hurt, and quite badly too.

“Careful, there,” Aziraphale says lightly. “The streets aren't as even as they should be, of late.”

There's a frown hovering around Crowley's mouth, but he accepts the excuse, and doesn't say a word as they make their way to the door. He doesn't shake off Aziraphale's arm, either, letting the angel discreetly support him as he limps his way into the shop.

He collapses into his usual spot on the couch, and Aziraphale pretends not to hear the way he groans in relief as he takes the pressure off his feet. He lets Crowley sit there a moment, giving the demon space to gather himself while he sets the kettle on to boil. Then he heads into the back to fetch a basin, washcloth, and a first aid kit.

When he returns, Crowley is slumped in his usual loose sprawl, although Aziraphale's practiced eye can see the tension that belies his casual pose. His head is tilted back, glasses slightly askew and hair tousled. For a moment Aziraphale thinks him asleep already, but as he kneels down and begins slipping off his shoes, the demon stirs.

“Nhghh... wha-?” he mumbles, cracking open one eye and startling when he sees Aziraphale. “Angel, you-- what are you doing?”  
  
“What does it look like I'm doing?” Aziraphale asks dryly, as he starts rolling down one sock. “I'm tending to your feet. Really, Crowley, _consecrated ground_? You shouldn't have.”

Crowley splutters and twitches, as if he wants to yank his foot away, but Aziraphale holds him tight. After a moment, the demon relents, but he doesn't relax, his grip on the armrest tight as he stares up at the ceiling.  
  
“It was no big deal,” he mutters. “Don't know why you're making such a fuss.”

 _No big deal_ , Aziraphale thinks, as he peels off the sock to reveal a ruin of red, blistered flesh. _Oh, Crowley._ His other foot, once revealed, looks just as bad. He tries to catch Crowley's eye, tries to say something, but the demon's gaze remains locked on the ceiling, his face carefully blank.

Sighing, Aziraphale turns to his task.

There will be no miraculous healing for these wounds. It's a tricky business at the best of times, using divine healing on a demon, but he knows, instinctively, that it's not a possibility for these injuries. Likely using a healing miracle on holy burns would only make them worse. Instead, he conjures ice water to fill the basin and gently lowers Crowley's feet into it.

Crowley squeaks at the temperature, but it does seem to help, as some of the tension leaves his frame. After a thorough soak, Aziraphale lifts his feet and gently dries them off, then reaches for a tin of burn salve. It won't do much on its own, but a quick miracle imbues it with the strongest analgesic he can manage, and as he slathers it onto Crowley's feet he hears the demon sigh in real relief, his eyes slipping closed behind his glasses. He relaxes further as Aziraphale winds bandages around his feet, practically melting into the worn leather of the sofa, finally looking truly at ease.

His task done, Aziraphale retreats to his own chair, suddenly at a loss.He pours himself a cup of tea, but he doesn't drink. Instead he twists the cup around in his hands, staring into its depths as if the liquid there can give him some answers. He's wished to speak to Crowley again for so long, but now that they're finally reunited, he has no idea what to say.

They are friends, still. He's known that much since he saw Crowley appear in the church, sauntering to Aziraphale's rescue once again. But Aziraphale can't help but feel the weight of all the years they spent apart pressing in on them, this thing between them as fragile and delicate as a soap bubble. It seems all too possible that one misstep, one wrong word or action could break their tentative peace for good.

Crowley feels it too, he thinks. He's relaxed now, no longer in pain, but he's still holding back, still wary. He seems just as much at a loss as Aziraphale, both of them wondering _where do we go from here?_

Aziraphale's teacup rattles in his hands as he nervously taps his fingers against it, casting about for some safe topic of conversation. Across from him, Crowley is still and silent, waiting for Aziraphale to make the first move-- and fair enough, it was Aziraphale who insisted he come in. Still, he wishes he could see the demon's eyes. It's hard not to imagine the expression that might be hidden behind the dark glasses-- judgement, or anger, or contempt; surely Aziraphale deserves any or all of them.

It has been so long since they've seen each other, none of their old topics of conversation feel quite right-- and too many of them are arguments, or started that way. He does not want to argue with Crowley. Does not want to risk upsetting the demon and driving him off again.

Which leaves only the new to discuss, and-- well. There was _one_ new thing about Crowley, wasn't there? That car of his...

So Aziraphale settles himself back in his chair, sips his tea, and says, as casually as he can, “You know, as soon as I saw those _infernal_ horseless carriages, I was sure you'd be delighted with them, and I see I was right. Had that newfangled monstrosity outside long, have you?”

It was the right thing to say, it seems, or at least not the wrong one, because it coaxes a smile from Crowley, and some of the tension in the air drains away. “The Bentley is gorgeous, angel, don't you dare insult her,” he says. “And yes. Had her from new. Took her right off the lot.”

“Oh, did you?” Aziraphale asks, fondly.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, and there's real joy in his voice now. “Had to. Never seen anything like her before...”

Aziraphale listens to Crowley expound on his car, and, with a little prompting, some of the adventures he had during his time away. The demons' voice fills the shop-- he always has been an excellent storyteller, and Aziraphale lets himself sink into it, lets the sound of it wrap around him. It feels good, and right, and it soothes something deep inside him he hadn't even realized was broken.

Slowly, slowly, the ice between them begins to thaw, the brittle tension melting away. Aziraphale finishes his tea and opens a bottle of wine, and by the time they've finished it, it feels as if they were never apart at all. The quiet of the night is warm and welcoming, the soft gaslight a haven from the world outside and all its conflicts. Here, in this space, there is no war; only the easy, quiet comfort of long friendship.

Eventually, Crowley's words slow, his thoughtful silences growing longer and longer, until he drifts off entirely, his head slumping against the back of the couch. Aziraphale gives him a soft, small smile when he notices, before standing up to drape a blanket over the demon's sleeping form.

He pauses, then, looking down at Crowley. There is so much more that he would like to say. Three words in particular hover on the tip of his tongue.

He doesn't say them. This knowledge is too new, too raw to be voiced aloud, and in any case, it's far too dangerous. He will hold them inside his heart, instead, and in glances he steals when the demon isn't looking, and in the comfortable silences between them.

It's all right. He knows his own heart, now. He knows Crowley's heart, too. They have time to find the words they need. They have tomorrow, and the next day, and all the days after that. Years and years ahead of them.

In the end, he allows himself only the lightest brush of his fingers through Crowley's hair as he smooths it back from his forehead.

“Good night, Crowley,” he whispers. “Sleep well.”


	3. 1967

Crowley walks away from the pub, chewing his lip as he thinks over the plan. As plans go, it's not his best, but it _is_ simple. It will work. Still, he worries.

It's dangerous, is the thing, even if he's not going inside the church himself. The humans will get the holy water, he's sure of that, but there's still a lot that could go wrong. If they don't seal the container... if they don't dry it off fully... if just one drop touches him...

He shivers. It's terrifying, but he _needs_ this. Hell has really been breathing down his neck these past few decades. He may have made a mistake, claiming credit for starting the Second World War-- they've been watching him more closely since then, waiting for him to come up with something else equally ambitious. They haven't been impressed with his usual temptations, and he's starting to feel the pressure.

If he can't come up with something big enough, they might start taking a closer look at his old reports. And if they do _that_ \--

They'll realize just how much he's made up, all these years. But worse, they might realize he never did some of those temptations at all. That instead they were done by an _angel--_

He _needs_ the holy water, and if Aziraphale won't help him...

Distracted by these worries, he slides into the Bentley, only to jerk back as he realizes someone else is in the car already.

It's Aziraphale.

Crowley blinks. “What are you doing here?” he asks, too-sharply. This isn't how they do things. They don't just- just _turn up_ like this, it's _not safe_ , they have _protocols_ for a _reason--_

“I needed a word,” the angel says, in a tone that brooks no argument. He sighs. “I work in Soho, Crowley. I _hear_ things _._ Like, for example, the plan you're setting up to rob a church.” His tone is clipped and angry, but he doesn't look at Crowley, keeping his gaze straight ahead, watching the passers-by. His hands are curled in tight, unhappy fists in his lap. “Crowley, it's too dangerous. Holy water won't just kill your body. It will destroy you completely.”

 _It will destroy you_.

There are those _words_ again. Crowley grits his teeth, biting back an angry hiss. He _knows,_ bless it _._ He knows what it means, he _knows_ what he's risking, and he doesn't want to have this argument again, not now, not when they've just begun to be friends again.

“You already told me what you think,” he spits out, “A hundred and five years ago.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, tightly, “and I haven't changed my mind. But Crowley--” he pauses, then, and something in his voice makes Crowley look over. Aziraphale is staring at him, and there's something in his gaze... is it just the light from the signs outside, or do his eyes look... wet?

“I won't have you risking your life,” Aziraphale says, finally, and then he's pressing something into Crowley's hands, something cool and smooth and metal. “So you can call off the robbery.”

Crowley blinks, again, stunned, and looks down at what the angel has given him. It's a thermos, wrapped in Aziraphale's tartan, and there's a message there, he knows, but he can't think about that now, can barely hear over the roaring in his ears, the stunned realization as it slowly dawns on him what he's holding.

This isn't-- this _can't be--_

He looks to Aziraphale again, desperate for confirmation, but the angel is staring down at his lap, gaze fixed on his hands, twisting and tangling together as he frets and fidgets. “Just don't- don't go unscrewing the cap,” he says, with a weak attempt at levity.

“It's-- It's the real thing?” Crowley whispers, still hardly daring to believe.

“The holiest,” Aziraphale agrees.

“After- after everything you said?” Crowley presses, because he doesn't-- he can't _understand_. Why? Why now? What's changed?

He stares at Aziraphale, searching the angel's face for-- _something_ , some clue, some answer to the hundred questions whirling in his head-- but Aziraphale only stares miserably down at his lap, his face carefully blank. His posture is tense and rigid, as if he's bracing for some terrible blow.

It reminds Crowley of-- _oh._ It's the same way _he'd_ looked, he thinks, all those years ago in St. James, staring down at the water as he prepared to open up his heart and make the biggest leap of faith he'd ever dared.

All at once, he understands.

This is an apology, or maybe a confession, or both. Because Aziraphale-- _Aziraphale loves him_.

Aziraphale loves him, and maybe he doesn't understand why Crowley wants the holy water, but he's trusting Crowley with it anyway.

 _I won't have you risking your life_.

All the things Crowley had been trying to say, back then-- he knows, now. Aziraphale understands. More than that, he-- he _feels the same_.

Crowley swallows hard, suddenly finding it hard to speak. His chest feels tight and hot, almost painful. He shudders. A demon's heart is a small, dry, hollow thing, and his has been suddenly filled to bursting-- like a desert riverbed dry and cracked from long drought, suddenly flooded by water after a rain. He doesn't know what to say, what words can possibly contain the depth of this feeling.

It took a hundred and five years, but the message he'd tried so hard to send has finally, finally been received.

A long, ragged silence stretches between them, the only sounds the soft rasp of Crowley's rough breaths and the restless tapping of Aziraphale's fingers against the door.

At last Crowley manages to croak, “... should I say thank you?”

“Best not,” Aziraphale says softly, ruefully, and turns to leave.

“Wait,” Crowley gasps.

He needs to know. He needs to be _sure_. This hope is too painful for him to have misunderstood.

“Can I drop you somewhere?” he asks, all but begging. “I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go.”

 _Come with me,_ he thinks _. Let's do something, together_. _Tell me I'm right. Tell me you feel the same. That I'm not just imagining things._

Aziraphale turns to look at him then, and his eyes are sad but so, so kind as he says, gently, almost wistfully, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Something must show in his face, because the angel relents. “Oh, don't look so sad,” he says. “Perhaps one day we could... I don't know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

And Crowley hears the message there, the words left unspoken-- as so many of their conversations must be. _I want to. Please believe I want to, but we can't. It's not safe. I'm not ready to talk about it, not yet._

And then he's gone.

Crowley hardly hears the door as it swings shut behind the angel, leaving him sitting alone in the Bentley, cradling a tartan thermos in his hands and very nearly weeping.

He stares at the thermos for a long time, hardly able to believe it's real.

 _He loves me_.

After all this time, after everything they'd said-- he'd hardly dared to hope. But this...

_He knows. He understands. He feels the same._

The sheer _relief_ that courses through him is overwhelming. For so long, it seemed, he'd been alone, shouting out into the void. Reaching out, only to meet with empty air. The ground falling out from under him, again and again and again.

But now, finally, Aziraphale has caught him. This thing between them... it has a name. It's real. He hasn't imagined it. Aziraphale feels it too. And maybe he can't name it, not yet, and he won't bring it out into the open. But...

He draws a finger down the lines of the tartan. But there's a promise here, too.

_Maybe, one day, we could..._

Crowley sniffs, and manages a shaky sort of smile. It's okay. He can wait. Now that he knows he's not alone-- he'll wait until the end of the world, if he has to.

He sets the thermos down, and turns the wheel towards home.

* * *

_and the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth  
and the landscape of merry and desperate drought  
once I knew myself  
and with knowing came love  
I would know love again if I had faith enough_

_too far is next spring, and her jubilant shout  
so angel inside, is the only way out_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, let me know in the comments! I love hearing what people think. :3


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